I have felt my heart breaking since first hearing of the shootings in Connecticut, breaking yet icing over as well. Since the first queasy suspicion in my own gut about the boy and his mind, his diagnosis or lack of diagnosis. Ice thickening and hardening against the political posturing of the NRA over the dead bodies of children. The sharp splinters of my heart warding off the words of each slick, over-funded lobby group that appropriates the grief of families everywhere, even as we clutch our as-yet warm and breathing children closer, tighter.
There's so much to say. This little word balloon is too small and light to contain it all. It's not as brave and adventurous as the balloon in "Up," which carried a whole house off on a fantastic journey. The House at Asperger's Corner is too big and heavy for that. And it doesn't like change, it likes to stay where it is. But my word balloon can't be happy with its string tied to the doorknob, anchored to the House at Asperger's Corner; it needs to drift along, light as air. And so it shall. I will feed it with my breath, when I have breath to spare. Poems, stories, meditations, artworks. Air.
The House at Asperger's Corner needs its own dedicated blog; returning to the concept of a web-log, like a ship's log, a record of progress, discovery, storms, uncharted desert isles, projects, meetings with strangers both hostile and friendly, inventory, passenger lists, troubles, triumphs, and did I mention progress? Please, progress? I'm not sure what to call it: These are the voyages of the Starship Asperger's... or The House at Asperger's Corner... or just, Dear Emma.
Monday 31 December 2012
Saturday 17 March 2012
DIARY OF A BAD HOUSEWIFE - Part II *Not to be confused with the "Diary of a Bad Housewife" Blog by punk feminist Alice Bag WHICH I TOTALLY DIG!!*
All I can say is my little plastic dustpan has cracked under the strain. I've looked everywhere but can't seem to find one of those old-fashioned METAL dustpans. I don't want to keep spending money over and over again on cheap plastic housecleaning equipment. There should be good ones out there.
Actually, I can say one more thing. After my daughter's crispy toasted bagel crumbs were joined on the floor today by rich dark earth scattered out of the plant in the corner, I suddenly remembered why I resisted getting a cat for so long.
Actually, I can say one more thing. After my daughter's crispy toasted bagel crumbs were joined on the floor today by rich dark earth scattered out of the plant in the corner, I suddenly remembered why I resisted getting a cat for so long.
Wednesday 7 March 2012
DIARY OF A BAD HOUSEWIFE - Part I*Not to be confused with the "Diary of a Bad Housewife" Blog by punk feminist Alice Bag WHICH I TOTALLY DIG!!*
Have got my cute little checklists all printed and posted up in appropriate places in the house. Thought I might get a jump start on that old devil "Spring Cleaning" but it looks like my tulips have beat me to the punch. Have also got a new pet in the house, a very stinky young ginger cat, and he has joined the conspiracy of my dog, my child and my husband to keep our house messy no matter what I do, or how many times I do it.
So I'm contemplating the role of the broom and of the act of sweeping in the life of, um, contemplation.
Like those monks, you know? Always sweeping the steps of the temple? It's a purely meditative state for them, and that's because there is no actual dirt to sweep. Just the rhythmic swish, swish of the broom across the ancient stone. The cleaning lady has already been through the temple with her vaccuum cleaner and assorted Swiffer products, and has gone home to do her laundry, clean her own house, put a yak in to roast, and play some Mah-jong with the girls.
At my house, as soon as I've cleared a space in which to place some small Zen-like meditative object, my husband comes in and empties his pockets. I suppose that's why I'm so attracted to the big cataclysmic overhaul that I mean when I say "Spring Cleaning." Just trying to keep on top of the clutter is not good enough. I want everything to change drastically, and forever, no going back to the dark (and dusty) ages.
Brooms, buckets, mops, dusters, fancy techno-cloth scrubbers, vinegar and baking soda, and so much more. I'll let you know how it goes.
So I'm contemplating the role of the broom and of the act of sweeping in the life of, um, contemplation.
Like those monks, you know? Always sweeping the steps of the temple? It's a purely meditative state for them, and that's because there is no actual dirt to sweep. Just the rhythmic swish, swish of the broom across the ancient stone. The cleaning lady has already been through the temple with her vaccuum cleaner and assorted Swiffer products, and has gone home to do her laundry, clean her own house, put a yak in to roast, and play some Mah-jong with the girls.
At my house, as soon as I've cleared a space in which to place some small Zen-like meditative object, my husband comes in and empties his pockets. I suppose that's why I'm so attracted to the big cataclysmic overhaul that I mean when I say "Spring Cleaning." Just trying to keep on top of the clutter is not good enough. I want everything to change drastically, and forever, no going back to the dark (and dusty) ages.
Brooms, buckets, mops, dusters, fancy techno-cloth scrubbers, vinegar and baking soda, and so much more. I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday 2 February 2012
Sciuridae, Charles “Chucky” Sr.
A shadow falls over our hearts as we announce the sudden passing of our beloved patriarch, at work, early on February 2, 2012. A dedicated seasonal forecaster and long-time supporter of the United Beavers and Land Beavers Workers’ Collective, Chucky Sr. was preparing to present his annual forecast when tragedy struck. Well respected in his professional field and meadow, Chucky also won acclaim in our community for his active role in the Royal Order of Rodentia.
Survived by Nibbles, loving wife of 32 days, and predeceased by wives Mellow, Cuddles, Daisy, BonBon, Eartha and Pudge; survived by doting children Charles Jr., Bella, Bonny, Woody, Bucky, Buddy, Carlson, Iggy, Rosie, Marmy, Alfred, Digger and Beatrix, as well as numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
An intimate family gathering will be held at The Burrow. In lieu of alfalfa and berries, donations to Research for Seasonal Affective Disorder will be gratefully accepted.
Friday 6 January 2012
Star Trek vs. Space 1999
Star Trek: The Swinging Sixties
Space 1999: The Suck-a-delic Seventies
That's basically what it comes down to. The original Star Trek series may be a giant intergalactic ham and cheese sandwich, but it's fun, colourful, made by people who know how to do T.V. Space 1999 is kind of like Shaft Goes To Outer Space, Loses his Sense of Fashion, His Sense of Humour, His Mojo, and Everything Else Worth Having. He puts on his beige jumpsuit and platform shoes and heads straight to the nearest disco, where he collapses on a biege sofa in the sterile lounge of the Moon-base Alfalfa Sprout. Ladies with feathered hair and bad lip-gloss look on blandly from the computer display screen. Captain Kirk's mascara would be running right down into his snarling teeth.
Space 1999 is dull, beige, and made by people who do not know how to do T.V.... perhaps the British. It's hard to tell, nobody speaks clearly enough to have a discernible accent.
Ahh, yes, feels good to have the first rant of 2012 out of my system. Stay tuned for my next post, which will feature a FREE STORY originally appearing in Writer's Digest Holiday Story Exchange 2011. The stories exchanged were posted in a private blog open only to those who participated, so that we could guess who wrote which story, and to keep everybody's stuff private. But I'm very pleased with my story and want to share it. Is my self-satisfaction merited? Only you, my faithful reader(s) can say.
Space 1999: The Suck-a-delic Seventies
That's basically what it comes down to. The original Star Trek series may be a giant intergalactic ham and cheese sandwich, but it's fun, colourful, made by people who know how to do T.V. Space 1999 is kind of like Shaft Goes To Outer Space, Loses his Sense of Fashion, His Sense of Humour, His Mojo, and Everything Else Worth Having. He puts on his beige jumpsuit and platform shoes and heads straight to the nearest disco, where he collapses on a biege sofa in the sterile lounge of the Moon-base Alfalfa Sprout. Ladies with feathered hair and bad lip-gloss look on blandly from the computer display screen. Captain Kirk's mascara would be running right down into his snarling teeth.
Space 1999 is dull, beige, and made by people who do not know how to do T.V.... perhaps the British. It's hard to tell, nobody speaks clearly enough to have a discernible accent.
Ahh, yes, feels good to have the first rant of 2012 out of my system. Stay tuned for my next post, which will feature a FREE STORY originally appearing in Writer's Digest Holiday Story Exchange 2011. The stories exchanged were posted in a private blog open only to those who participated, so that we could guess who wrote which story, and to keep everybody's stuff private. But I'm very pleased with my story and want to share it. Is my self-satisfaction merited? Only you, my faithful reader(s) can say.
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